


Harmony (Left-Handed Melody Remix)

by mindabbles



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindabbles/pseuds/mindabbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is the last person Draco was expecting, but then again, this is not a place Draco ever expected to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harmony (Left-Handed Melody Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nyargles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Harmony](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/790) by nyargles. 



> Thank you so much to the mods for running this extravaganza, to nyargles for the lovely "Harmony," and to my fabulous beta.

"You can't be serious," Draco says. Shacklebolt towers over him. With his formal black robes and gold hoop earrings, he cuts an impressive and intimidating figure.

"What about me would make you think I am not generally serious?" Shacklebolt arches an elegant eyebrow and the shiver Draco feels leaves him in no doubt as to why Shacklebolt is the leader of this post-You-Know-Who society.

"How do you even know I play?" Draco asks, stalling yet again. The request to provide the music for a Ministry party commemorating the Dark Lord's fall has come as a bit of a surprise, to say the least.

"I know many things, Mr. Malfoy." Shacklebolt smiles mildly and crosses his muscular arms.

"All right," Draco says. "I didn't expect to say this, but I'll do it."

*

The large room buzzes with the noise of people who would just as soon see him dead. The piano that Shacklebolt has managed to procure for the Ministry for Magic gathering is lovely, its movement smooth and its notes rich and clear. With each touch of his fingers to the honest-to-Merlin erumpent horn keys, he tries to shut away a morsel of the discomfort that made his skin crawl when he first walked in the door.

He's aware of him, of Potter, in the same way you know it's going to rain before the first drops fall. Potter seems to be trying to hide, as if everyone here doesn't know exactly where the hero is. Or maybe it is just Draco who tingles with awareness at every glimpse of short, spiky black hair. Distracted as he is, he's not playing his best. He is nowhere near to redeeming himself as Shacklebolt had so irritatingly suggested he might.

The garish orange streetlamps cast a common glow over the rare keys of the piano; their light makes Draco's fingers, dancing across the keys, look as if they are washed in old blood. Vague small talk filters through the serene music, older than most of these people's bloodlines, and Draco struggles to shut it out, to lose himself in the music and forget that he is in this most bizarre of positions.

Draco closes his eyes and feels the erumpent horn warm beneath his fingers. He begins a piece he learned the summer before he went to Hogwarts. Lyrical and a touch melancholy, his father had pronounced it beneath his son, but Draco had loved it and played it anyway.

The music fills him and, for the first time in months, he thinks of Vincent, of the ruin that is his father, of his stoic mother, and of the life he was promised that is no longer his. For the first time in months, he lets the feelings wash over him and pour into the keys.

The war is finished, and his birthright with it. The traitorous wish to go back in time has never pulled more intensely. He's not supposed to want it—that life. The people in their brightly coloured robes make it vividly obvious that he is one of the only people here who is still in mourning. He closes his eyes.

Draco picks a simple, lively piece, and people gather around the piano. The black and white keys are a familiar distraction from the many pairs of eyes staring at him, no doubt marvelling that something so humble and lovely could come from someone they see as so arrogant and corrupted. As if he hasn't had the same thought himself.

He lifts his hands and lets the final note linger in the air. He waits for the moment when he is no longer certain if he hears or feels the sound; his fingers find their mark again and he begins _Solitude in A minor_, composed by his great-great grandmother Black. He was forbidden to play this beautiful piece because of her alleged betrayal of the family.

A shadow falls across the keys and black robes block his peripheral vision. He knows this piece in his sleep and he glances up. Potter's startlingly green eyes are sombre.

"I didn't expect you," Potter says. His voice is soft behind the music. "Especially here."

Draco knows as much as anyone that he doesn't belong, and he still cannot fathom why he allowed Shacklebolt to make him the poster boy of reconciliation. Perhaps it is because he can't face his father's pain, or because this is now the way of the land and he may as well find his place. Perhaps it is because he hoped to find here someone who would mourn along with him, but he never expected it.

"I play," Draco whispers without missing a note.

A shadow passes over Potter's face. Draco catches his eye, catches and holds, and he knows that there are only two people in the room hearing this melody.

A man Draco recognizes as being on the Hogwarts Board of Governors claps Potter on the shoulder and turns him away. Draco keeps playing, his fingers trembling lightly whenever they are not touching the keys.

*

Potter is passed around like a trophy for the rest of the evening. Draco plays until he is back around to pieces he'd played as people were arriving. Every now and again he feels a prickling sensation at the back of his neck or warmth in his stomach and he glances up to find green eyes on him or black robes hovering nearby.

A hand lights on his shoulder and he turns.

"I've been looking for someone to play in my tea shop at the weekends," says an old woman who Draco recognises, but can't place. "I'd like to hire you, if you're available. Just a trial to start. I can pay twenty galleons for a regular Saturday and twenty-five on Hogsmeade weekends."

Madam Puddifoot, Draco realises.

"You must be joking," Draco says, his fingers hovering over the warmed keys. He looks about to see if anyone has heard.

"I very rarely am, young man," the woman says in her sparrow's trill.

It is his well-bred impulse to scoff and tell her that Malfoys are not for hire.

"I'll have to think about it," he says, as if he receives offers of employment every day. "I'll come round on Thursday next to discuss terms."

The prospect of telling his father, so indignant in his fall from grace, that he is working at the tacky tea room in Hogsmeade – using a skill that was intended only to impress friends and inspire envy among relatives – to earn a handful of galleons, that a Malfoy is working _at all_, fills him with such childish defiance that it is all he can do not to call after her that moment.

*

At least two dozen kettles, spread across the sideboard, are under heating charms keeping them at the boil. The steam curling steadily from their spouts makes it feel like summer in Kuala Lumpur. Cake stands with pink and yellow confections fill the shelves by the window and a tiny vase with a single pink bud adorns each table.

In a fit of misguided teenaged heterosexuality, Draco had invited Pansy here when they were at school. She'd informed him that the humidity would spoil her hair. Looking about, several carefully curled heads seem to be wilting.

Draco finishes the piece, a light and airy one that his mother used to ask him to play at her ladies' luncheons. It seems to suit and some of the patrons even appear to be listening. He says quietly that he'll take a short break. He sets a charm over the kettles and another over the nearby window. The steam swirls together into one thick, white column and funnels out into the cool afternoon air.

He pours himself a cup of tea and waits for his employer to tell him that the steam created atmosphere and he shouldn't have meddled. She comes from the kitchen, a tray of sandwiches bobbing along in front of her and stops in front of the sideboard.

"Hmpf," she says, with something that might be approval rounding out the last sound, and turns to go back to the kitchen.

He always starts with the easy pieces, because every time he comes, and this is only the third, he is certain he won't stay. He doesn't want to give it his best effort and then leave.

Every time he's been, he's played his best. Every time he's been, he's made one small change to the place and played a bit longer than the week before.

*

When Draco strips the pink lace hearts from the walls and replaces them with tasteful paintings of flowers, he fears a rebellion of the cherubs. He needn't have worried. They seem to enjoy the music so much that they forgive him the incremental changes to the decor.

By the fourth weekend, they fly to him, humming in four part harmony when he plays one of their favourite pieces.

By the fifth weekend, every table is packed for elevenses.

*

Potter wears nothing but black. Draco cannot recall seeing the man in anything but sombre black robes. Draco can feel his presence like a breeze on the back of his neck and knows who is behind him before he looks up from the keys.

He doesn't know what he was thinking. That no one outside of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts would find out what he was doing, apparently. He swallows the feeling that he has been caught doing something shameful.

He stands before he speaks. "If you've come to ridicule me, you can save your breath. I've nothing to say."

"I just stopped in for a cup of tea." Potter shrugs. His square jaw has the barest shadow of dark stubble sharpening its angles.

"No one just stops in here for a cup of tea." Draco says, and Harry smiles.

"I hear they have a very nice coconut cake." Harry sits at a table in the corner, his back to the wall, facing the piano.

Draco's heart hammers against his ribs. The buggering cherubs giggle and hum Berlioz's _Romeo et Juliette_. Harry's benign smile doesn't change and Draco's pulse slows. Draco will be the only one in the tea room who actually knows this piece, besides apparently the cherubs, as Berlioz was a third cousin to his great-great-great-grandfather and family-approved fare.

Madam Puddifoot places a huge piece of fluffy, white cake in front of Harry. Draco decides it's more trouble than it's worth to go against the cherubs, and the first notes of _Romeo et Juliette_ fill the steam-free air.

*

On the seventh Saturday, Harry sits at the table right next to the piano. He eats his coconut cake slowly and sips three cups of tea as young couples come and go. Draco notices for the first time in months that he is really not so much older than some of them.

*

By the time Madam Puddifoot closes up shop at half five on the eighth weekend, Draco has to admit two things. First, Harry Potter is not coming in for his slice of cake today. Second, Draco is irksomely disappointed about it.

*

Draco's music had suffered last week and, while this is a ridiculous job, it's him who'll be ridiculous if he does it badly.

He's practised every day. He hasn't played this much since he was fifteen and thought he might still find an escape. This piece, long and complex, melody in the left hand, is eerie and lovely. It was composed by Cedrella Black, a name he'd never heard before he found the scroll during one of his ramblings in the attic. Draco was confined to his rooms for three days when he was discovered playing it.

He bends his head and watches his hands. Strands of his hair escape the tie that pulls it back from his face. The fingers on his left hand find the notes that make his heart ache as his right spreads over chords that span an octave and lift the melody to something magical. The cherubs hover behind him, still and silent.

He settles into the coda and leaves his foot on the pedal and his fingers, elegantly curved, on the keys. He listens to the silence that follows the final notes.

"Come for a drink with me."

Draco starts. It's only just ten, and he hadn't heard anyone come in. Potter is wringing his hands, standing there with his black robes draping perfectly from his angular shoulders. The cherubs fly to the piano like a flock of birds and begin to hum quietly.

"I'm working." This is the first time that Draco has said this aloud. After nine weeks, it seems, this is the truth.

"When you're finished." Potter shrugs and turns to the door as two young women wander in, looking nervous. They take the table where Potter usually eats his cake.

"That's in seven hours, Potter," Draco says.

"I have things to do. I'll come back," Potter says. His voice is soft and a little rough at the end. "I'll come back for a bit of that cake near closing time. Save me one."

"You're mad." Draco says. He traces the keys, placing his hands at the beginning of the next piece he'll play.

"Perhaps," Potter says as he turns to go.

Draco is four stanzas into his piece before he realises that he never quite said, "No."

At a quarter past four, he tells Madam Puddifoot that he's fallen ill and can't finish the day. The cherubs accompany him to the door, humming mournfully.

*

The tenth Saturday is a Hogsmeade weekend. The day is nearly finished and Draco has made it through four hours of music and two breaks without once looking for a flash of green eyes or the swish of black robes under equally black, messy hair.

Two students pass by and Draco vaguely remembers the boy. He's in Slytherin and was a first or second year when Draco had still noticed other students.

"He is. He's there in the Hog's Head. Genvieve said he's been there all afternoon. Let's go," the girl says, her eyes dancing.

The boy scowls. "I don't want to go to that grotty place just because _you_ fancy Harry Potter."

The girl looks hurt and says, "I don't _fancy_ him." She threads her arm through the boy's, as if to show him who she does fancy and they go out into the bright afternoon to try and mend their spoilt afternoon.

Draco plays one more piece, his eyes darting involuntarily to the windows. He never stays in town for a drink or dinner after his day at the tea shop. He always steps into the Floo and goes right back to London. Tonight will not be any different.

*

Draco's father is convinced that his post is being intercepted. He has been for ages. There is, apparently, no other reasonable explanation for the lack of social invitations and requests for his counsel. Some days, he goes quietly about the business of the manor and he and Mother see relatives or go into town. Some days, he raves and paces, and Mother stays away from him, in the garden or to Andromeda's.

This morning, it is one of the days that sends Mother frantically to the Floo. Draco is passing the door, slightly ajar, to her rooms when he hears Aunt Andromeda's tenor voice say, "Yes, come over. Teddy's with Harry. We'll be able to talk."

Draco can't remember why he accepted the offer to play here, but it has become his refuge, and his place of traitorous hope – this he knew the moment he heard Andromeda say that name, and his heart fluttered like those bloody cupids' wings.

He tells himself he has stopped looking for Potter, but he seems, maddeningly enough, not to be able to lie to himself particularly convincingly anymore.

It is nearly three and almost all of the tables are full. The patrons have changed in the past twelve weeks. There are couples of all ages, and even some groups of friends. It used to be that the conversations were all self-conscious small talk, people fiddling nervously with delicate cups. First or second dates, all of them. Very few people used to come to Puddifoot's once they were actually comfortable with each other.

Draco has stopped wondering if Potter will ever come back for the last bit of coconut cake that he always puts aside, and Madam never asks. And then, just as Draco begins his second break, he does.

Potter sits at the back table, facing the piano. He scans the room, eyeing the couples and groupings at the tables. Now that the music has stopped, individual snippets of conversation can be heard – who's going about with whom, what NEWT subjects one ought to take, where to live after Hogwarts.

Draco stands and he can feel Potter's eyes on him. In the kitchen, he tells Madam that Harry Potter is here and would like some coconut cake. With a devilish smirk, she takes the piece that Draco set aside early in the day.

Draco sips his tea and ignores the way the cup rattles when he replaces it in the saucer. Somehow he always ends up with one of the cups adorned with tiny pink and gold cherubs.

The afternoon slips away. People come and go and Potter sits at that table nursing a pot of tea and slowly slipping small morsels of the sugary cake between his pink lips.

At half past four, Madam Puddifoot does something she has never done before. She whispers in Draco's ear that she has an appointment and she'll just nip away and let him close up. For the next half hour, people trickle out and no one new trickles in, and at five minutes past five, he and Potter are quite alone for the first time in years.

"Did you want something else?" Draco asks, attempting to be a good host. He eases the piano shut and waves his wand to gather the cups, saucers, and plates into the large dishpans for the House-elves to wash later this evening.

"No," Potter says. He leans back in his chair and runs the tip of one finger around the rim of his cup.

"Well, then," Draco says. "Are you going to ask me for a drink?"

Potter hesitates and looks for a second as if he doesn't know what to say. Draco holds back his grin.

"I brought my own this time," Potter says and he smiles a warm, easy smile. "Just in case you couldn't be convinced." He pulls a silver flask from his robes and conjures two goblets out of thin air. "Can't drink this from tea cups."

Draco sits. Across the table, Potter pours amber liquid into the goblets and the astringent bite of Firewhisky cuts through the sweet-scented air. Potter's hand is steady now that they are alone. Draco sees the way that Potter always seems slightly on guard, vigilant, whenever others are around. This is the most at-ease he has ever seen him, and Draco hasn't felt so on edge for ages.

Potter smirks and Draco clears his throat as he realises he's staring.

"Why do you do it?" Harry asks, raising his goblet and gesturing to the piano. Draco looks away from his intense gaze. "How do you let everyone see this side of you? I – it seems so private. When you play."

"I'm not like you, Potter. People don't want to pluck away little bits of me as they pass by. They want to leave well enough alone."

"This place is different," Potter says as his gaze comes back to rest on Draco. He continues as if Draco hasn't said a word. "I look at the people who come here now. They adore you."

"They adore the music. _I_ fade into the background."

Potter frowns, looking honestly concerned, and Draco feels himself flush.

"How long have you been playing?"

"A term," Draco says. "About three months." Twelve weeks, exactly. A lifetime, exactly.

Potter laughs softly and Draco's never heard him laugh like that – how he probably laughs with Weasley or Granger, or when that baby at Andromeda's twines his little fists into his hair.

"I meant when did you start playing at all, as in when did you learn?"

"Ah. When I was about five or six. My parents wanted to show me off to their friends." Draco stops and takes a long drink. The Firewhisky burns and he wonders when this conversation spun so out of his control.

Potter drains his goblet and his cheeks take on a feverish glow. The flush deepens and he looks at his hands, curled around his empty goblet. "Play for me."

He says it so quietly that Draco has to hear the words in his head a few times before he understands them.

Draco stands and shakes his head. He has to get out, get back to his room at the Manor. He storms into the kitchen and takes three deep breaths. When he comes back out into the tea room, Potter is gone.

*

If he were a different sort of person, Draco muses, he might apologise for leaving the way he did two weeks ago. If Potter were a different sort of a person, he might say _something_ to cut the awkwardness. But it appears that they will both pretend nothing happened as Draco plays and Potter works on his second pot of tea. Of course, if Potter were a different sort of a person, he would never have come back.

The final couple leaves and Draco's nerve endings are unbearably close to the surface as Potter tips his tea pot over, holding the lid so it doesn't clatter to the table, and lets the last drops drip into his cup.

Madam Puddifoot finishes clearing the tables as Draco takes an unaccountably long time to tidy up his area and close the piano. He's determined to wait Potter out, to ignore him.

"I'll let you close up," she says, and then she laughs and says, loud enough for Potter to hear. "That piece of coconut cake is still on the kitchen counter."

On second thought, Draco learned a few years ago that determination doesn't particularly suit him. Being honest, he has to admit that he does not have the most refined sense of what to be determined about. Without a glance at the git at the corner table, he goes to the kitchen.

The cake is in the middle of the counter. He did not leave it there. It has been weeks since he saved a piece for Potter. He severs a corner, thick with snowy-white frosting and fluffy flakes of coconut and lets the sugar spread on his tongue. He swallows as he hears the swinging half doors creak on their hinges.

"You don't have to play," Potter says. He is so close that Draco can feel his voice rumble through his chest.

"Oh really?" Draco is trying for disdain, but it doesn't quite come off that way, and he does not turn around, because he knows he can't school his features into the haughty mask he wants.

"No. Yes."

The touch is light enough that Draco is not sure whether he imagined it or not. Just one finger trailing down his spine. Draco gasps softly and he hopes that Potter didn't hear it. Potter's fingers splay out in the small of Draco's back and he feels Potter lean in. Draco's hand braces on the kitchen counter and he looks down as he feels Potter's mouth on the back of his neck. Fingers pull his hair back from where it has fallen over his face, and Potter slides warm, wet kisses up the side of Draco's neck.

"Oh god," Draco murmurs, and Potter grasps his robes, sliding them off his shoulders. The ground feels like it's slipping away. "Oh god," he says again.

*

Madam Puddifoot does not accept his resignation cheerfully. He has changed her establishment drastically over the past few months and she has never dreamed of being as successful as she is now. He cannot believe that he is irreplaceable in anything. There are other children of wealthy families who were raised to be idle—the only problem is that they have probably not sunk so low that they will play in a tea shop for a handful of galleons a week.

When he says this to her, she looks at him with genuine sadness and says, "Is that really how you see your talent, dear?"

He feels a twinge of regret that surprises him and stings his eyes as he steps out into the Floo.

It is the only decision. The unravelling of his carefully constructed control, the razing of walls designed to restore the family dignity, if only by creating an air of mystery, has gone too far. In this, his father was right.

*

The first Saturday, he walks the grounds. When Mother suggests that he could still play in the sitting room, if he likes, he tells her that he is going to see Gregory and Apparates to Hogsmeade where he joins the other unsavoury characters in the Hog's Head for some off-brand Firewhisky. He returns by eight for dinner and the three of them eat in silence at the long table that used to hold dozens on a Saturday night.

*

"I wish you would reconsider," Mother says. She looks stunning in midnight-blue robes, her hair swept away from her face. She looks just as he will always picture her as she prepares for an evening out, proud to be on Father's arm, and guaranteed to be far and away the most beautiful woman in the room. "I hate to see you sitting at home on your own. Everyone would love to see you. I'm sure Blaise hopes you'll come."

"I'm sorry, Mother," he says. And he is. He would like to please her, would even be proud to be seen on her arm. But the thought of spending the evening listening to Mother and Father and Blaise's parents, and whoever else deigns to attend, going on and on about the way that the Shacklebolt administration will ruin them all, makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

He wanders from room to room. When he was a child, he had grand fantasies of what he would do if left to his own devices in the Manor. He can't remember any of them now.

He ends up in the sitting room and pours himself a snifter of his parents' century-old brandy. He warms it slowly in his hand, holding it just under his face so that he can smell it shifting from sharp to mellow as it heats to his body temperature.

The piano is still in the corner. He's next to it before he realises he's crossed the room. He hasn't touched this one since the beginning of sixth year. If dust was ever allowed to collect anywhere in this house, the piano would be thick with it. The snifter of warmed, golden brandy glows beautifully on the polished, black wood with the lamp light shimmering through it.

The lid creaks as he opens it, and he freezes. A child afraid of being caught. The first note is tinny and flat. He stands and taps the strings and dampers with his wand, muttering the charms his teacher had made him memorise. When he next strikes a key, the sound is rich and full and he closes his eyes and just lets his fingers move. He seeks out chords and arpeggios, sometimes discordant and sometimes sweet, no metre or key. This, he was never allowed to do.

He hears the pattering sounds and smells the earthy scent of rain beginning to fall. It becomes the backdrop to his playing and he finds a rhythm that pushes his song faster and faster. The piece has no structure, but he knows suddenly that it's over and he lifts his hands abruptly, not wanting to spoil it with even one extra note.

The tapping at the window makes him jump nearly out of his skin. He whirls, wand in hand, and points it at the face, obscured by rivulets of running water. Pale skin, black hair hanging damply around a thin face.

"Potter," Draco grumbles, irritated as much by the lurch in his stomach as the interruption of his evening. And then he realises. Potter was listening. He flings open the window. The cool air and shower of rain rush over his face. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I knocked," Potter says. He places his hands on the sill and hoists his body through the window.

"You _knocked_?" Draco repeats, and he steps back to let Potter in when he intends to shove him back out into the rain. "You're lurking in the shrubbery. You're lucky one of the peacocks didn't come after you. They can be very territorial." Draco closes his mouth with a snap, hardly able to believe that he's going on about the habits of peacocks.

"I think I can manage a peacock," Potter says, with a lopsided smile that makes Draco _want_. "You've not...I've sent owls. You disappeared. You could have said."

"Said what?" Draco asks. "You're dripping on a very valuable rug." It's a lie. His mother purchased this rug in Spain last summer from a roadside stand.

"You could have said anything, just answered me," Potter says. He points his wand at himself and, without speaking, he's completely dry.

Draco can't help but regret that his hair no longer curls darkly over his forehead, or that his robes don't cling so closely to the contours of his body.

He can't tell Potter that he couldn't begin to imagine what to say, that the only thing that keeps coming to mind when he thinks of the other night is, "I didn't expect you."

He can't think with those green eyes, wide open and waiting, staring at him. As much as he knows he should tell Potter to go, that this is mad, he can't help but wonder if Potter's kisses will engulf his body in licks of flame, even when it is not the first time.

Potter utters a little "umph" of surprise when Draco steps forward and captures his mouth. Potter pushes back, threading his fingers through Draco's hair, pulling Draco hard against him.

Last time, Draco was swept up in a delicious wash of desire. It left him off-balance and he wants that again, wants it so much that it aches, but he can't be taken twice. He runs his hand down Potter's chest and presses against his stomach to feel his breathing, quick and shallow.

"You want me," Draco says. He rubs the heel of his hand over Potter's hardening cock, sliding the folds of his robes back and forth.

Potter gasps. His mouth opens around a word that doesn't come and Draco can let go, on even footing, now. Draco smiles and Potter groans and grabs him. When their mouths meet, Potter pulls Draco's bottom lip between his.

"Oh god," Draco moans.

Their hands scrabble at each other's robes, clumsy, too fast to slip delicate buttons through small holes. Somehow, he loosens Potter's clothes and pushes them off his long, lean body. Potter is still fumbling, so Draco rips his own away from his chest and a small silver button skitters under the sofa.

Potter's skin is soft and warm under the pads of his fingers, and with each stroke along Potter's waist, every touch to his hip, Draco shivers with want. He steers him, walking him backwards as they kiss and touch and forget who they are.

"Sit," Draco whispers and he pushes Potter down on to the long, upholstered piano bench.

Potter lies back. He props himself on his elbows and his hips are right at the edge of the bench. His eyes are dark and his pink lips are parted around his ragged breathing – waiting. Draco loses his breath at the sight.

"Draco," he whispers, low and rough.

Draco smirks and Potter catches his bottom lip in his teeth and grips the cushion on the bench.

"Potter," he says. He walks forward, straddling Potter's thighs. He leans to kiss him again, to pull that lip from between Potter's teeth and taste his mouth until Potter arches up and tries to pull Draco down onto his body.

"Wait," Draco moans. He settles onto Potter, his arse on Potter's abdomen, sliding back until he can feel Potter's hard, thick cock pressing against him. Potter collapses on the bench, his lovely throat in an arc as his head falls back and his hands come to rest on Draco's hips.

"Can't," says Potter.

He rolls his hips and Draco sucks in a breath when he feels Potter's cock slide against his arse. Potter's fingers grip hard enough to leave marks and he urges Draco to move, to rock back, and his cock slides into Draco's cleft. Draco braces himself, hands splayed on Potter's chest, and his thumbs tease over Potter's hard, pink nipples.

"Again," Potter moans. He thrusts up harder and his cock is slippery now, more each time Draco pinches his nipples and pushes back against his cock. Draco shifts and the head of Potter's cock catches lightly on the tight ring of his arsehole with each time they rock together.

"_Fuck_."

Draco gasps and encircles his own cock with his hand. Potter cranes his neck, watching as Draco's cock slips through the circle of his fingers and Draco moves over him, sliding their bodies together.

"Draco, fuck, Draco," Potter says, his eyes wild and his hands tight on Draco's hips, pulling him down so that his cock pushes hard against Draco's entrance.

Draco drinks in the delicious pressure, not quite enough to push inside, and the frenzied way his name spills from Potter's lips. He squeezes hard over the head of his cock and he thinks he might fall into Potter's arms and never get up as the orgasm floods through him. He's dizzy with pleasure as he watches himself come over Potter's pale stomach, dusted with dark hair.

Potter is nearly silent when he comes. He keeps his eyes open and one hand reaches to tangle in Draco's hair. He rolls his hips and as Draco feels the heat of him, he dares to believe that this is a beginning.

"I wasn't expecting you." Draco says. "That's what I meant to say."

"Neither was I." Harry smiles at him, as if he weren't Harry Potter looking at Draco Malfoy. And when Harry whispers, "Will you play for me?" Draco slides off his lap and turns to the piano.

As he begins to play, Harry envelopes Draco's body in his from behind and the rhythm of Harry's breathing becomes the metre of Draco's song.


End file.
